A kiss and two taps on the top of the head.

I'd done it for as long as I could remember, partly because it bothered him.

See, my dad was 6-feet tall and probably 275 pounds, a big guy capable of anything.

But he was bald and had two scars on the top of his head from when he had survived a nearly fatal car accident in 1992 after his head cracked the windshield.

So I did this gesture every night after he'd gotten home late from work (which was most of his life), emerged and evolved into something unconsciously habitual as I got older.

But, on the night of March 6, 2004, (I was home for spring break) I wasn't sure if I should do it. Earlier in the day, he had his brain mapped out for the neurosurgery he was set to undergo the next morning.

We watched hours of his favorite cop dramas (my head on his lap, just as I had when I was a kid) putting off going to sleep for as long as possible. Neither of us uttered a word, refusing to acknowledge anything was wrong. So, I gave the kiss and two taps, and I headed to bed.

It was the last time I got to do it, as it was the last night he ever spent in our house. He died three years ago Thursday -- three days after I was home from my freshman year.

Some say I'm strong, asking how I didn't collapse and seek comfort in home. Honestly, I couldn't disagree more. I just think I never knew how to deal with it, and perhaps, I still don't.

I insist that my attitude is a credit to his demeanor. Whenever misfortune beset my family, my dad would say, "It is what it is," and we'd do what we needed to get to the better days. It was like that when he got in the car accident, when he got laid off shortly afterward and countless other times through the first 19 years of my life.

So, I never really felt sorry for myself. He'd provided me a great life. In a suburb of New York City, my family had 2.5 kids (a dog), a fence and a Volvo.

The American Dream.

Even without him, I knew I was better off than most in the world, including the kid who shared the room next to me since the day he was born.

My brother, Andrew -- now a sophomore here -- was 16 at the time and assumed responsibilities of running the house while I finished the semester. Blessed with my father's common sense and self-assuredness, he conducted himself better than I ever could have. He put up with so much more and was so mature, while I was blessed with distance.

The ensuing summer, my family asked me to transfer schools to be closer to home. The truth is, I never contemplated leaving. This was my home now that he wasn't there. To stay was probably the best decision I ever made.

Although I stepped away from my family -- which I feel guilty about at times -- the decision led me to the best people, and the most important person, I'd ever met in my life.

Because I didn't I retreat and do what was easy and logical, I learned more than I ever thought I would.

Everybody has lost something or someone in one way or another. In his senior column several weeks ago, a fellow editor revealed he had lost both of his parents, which I can't even fathom. And several weeks ago, one of my best friends from freshman year lost his brother. Just two examples of the many I've encountered.

As my grieving friend and I began sharing what we were going through, our conversation reiterated what I've been learning for three years now.

You see, life consists not of neatly defined epochs, although we convince ourselves otherwise. Rather time is more fluid, as people in your life see you through its phases. Surely, those around you change, but there will always be those around you who care.

I'm not really sure what I'm doing after school, as I've answered the request to "challenge myself."

It was the one piece of advice I remember my dad giving me, which he told me to do when I enrolled at Penn State months before we knew he was sick. And although an uncertain future scares me, I've just now accepted it.